Bed of Broken Roses
by Kitty September
Summary: It started with "I'm sorry." It should have ended with it too. One simple phrase changes their 6th year utterly but Death Eaters still get into Hogwarts, and Harry can't stop them from hurting Draco.


It started with "I'm sorry."

Which isn't such a bad idea, in itself. Two simple words in a world, which is already achingly full of magic words. Two words, spoken in just the right moment of silence to change the shape of two wizards' destiny, and with them the world's. As any curse breaker knows, sometimes two words, at the right time with the right intent, are all it takes to break even the darkest spells. This one shattered a prophecy like glass, splintering into a thousand tiny painful pieces and spreading wider than anyone could see. It felt so right at the time. No hint of the sharp shard it threw into the future. It wasn't a bad idea, not in itself. But it will lead to so many bad ideas that maybe someone should have seen it coming.

Harry still dreams about the blood.

Blood and water and the heat of his tears. That wretched gasp, that sound which Harry was sure would have been Malfoy's last if Snape hadn't stormed in at just that perfectly imperfect moment. He hears it in his sleep, feels water and blood under his hands, still tastes salt on his lips when he wakes, and he's not sure if he's crying or bleeding. His dreams keep bleeding onto his tongue and into the cold light of dawn. In his dreams, the words spill out of him too - like blood from a wound.

Even awake, he's full of all this fear and lust and loss.

He keeps losing his grip.

He keeps cursing Malfoy in his dreams and himself when he wakes. He's not sure how much longer he can bite it all back.

He's still glad he said it.

Because he was and he is, so damn sorry. Sometimes he's so sorry it feels like he's the one slowly bleeding out, still. Aching himself to death with his own destructive potential. Then Malfoy smiles at Harry like he means it and the ache recedes, suffocated by a desire Harry's not quite ready to name even weeks later. It keeps getting horribly close to the end of term, and the start of war, but Harry chooses to ignore those facts and keeps his eyes on Malfoy.

Which is a mistake.

At some point, Malfoy even becomes Draco, and that's even worse.

Sometimes his dreams are less about blood and more about hot skin and blond hair and grey eyes. And that's almost as terrifying.

In a few short days, the term will end, and Draco Malfoy will go into hiding and may never come back; at least not the way Harry knows him.

Harry doesn't want to think about it. Doesn't want to ask if he'll be back on September 1st. He doesn't want to know if the answer is no. Maybe doesn't want to know if it's yes, either. Draco is terrified, Harry can tell; he's spent enough years watching to know the signs. More terrified even than he was when he clutched his chest in that once forsaken bathroom, red blood unrelenting against white hands and white cotton. Nothing should be scarier than that but, apparently, this is.

Harry stops himself from voicing those words. He never had a father to fear; what would he know?

Draco writes letters home each night, like clockwork. Harry watches as he tries to stop his hands from shaking. Sometimes the ink blots, but he says that's nothing new. He's been shaking for months, and switching sides hasn't made it worse.

Those words give rise to yet another feeling Harry can't translate.

He doesn't even try anymore.

Ginny broke up with Dean weeks ago. And Harry knows he should care about that. But when it happened there was too much blood on his hands, the stain ran too deep. Guilt had driven him to the hospital wing instead of to Ginny. Now he's said that breathless sorry, cloaked and concealed as he had been but heard nonetheless, the blood is finally fading. But it's been replaced by something else.

Something worse.

Something distracting and provocative and scarily familiar.

It isn't Ginny he's scared of this time; it isn't even himself. Not really. He knows this fear even though he's never felt it before. He's scared most of what he might never do. He's scared of losing something he may never have. He's scared of what he wants not to want.

Somehow, saying sorry has brought Harry to this dark and dangerous place. Standing on the edge of something unknowable, both too far and too close for comfort all at once. Studying in the hospital wing after curfew with Draco Malfoy, of all people.

Malfoy practically glows in the moonlight, and it hurts to look.

Harry is meant to be back in Gryffindor tower, tucked up in his warm bed with the red curtains drawn about him. Yet here he is, curled up on the end of Malfoy's hospital bed with his Transfiguration book open in front of him, trying to read but spending more time watching Draco bite his quill and make careful little notes.

Right now Draco is fine, as far as Harry can tell. He certainly doesn't need to still be in the hospital wing; it's probably doing him more harm than good at this point. He's restless and he's starting to get anxious. Harry can almost taste it. Dumbledore has kept Draco here for his own safety, or so he says. Malfoy argues that he would be fine in Slytherin House, that his friends and his own magic would protect him, but the Headmaster disagrees, so here they are. Closer than they could get a month ago without coming to blows. White sheets and grey tiles, blond hair and pale skin and silver moonlight filtering in the open windows.

It has been a stiflingly hot summer. Hermione says it has to do with a build up of Dark magic. Harry thinks it's more a reflection of his own panicked heartbeat. Heat and pressure building, inexorably toward some crushingly painful end.

"Are you even reading that at all?" Draco's drawling voice breaks Harry from his revery.

"No," says Harry, without thinking.

"And what, pray tell, are you doing here if not improving your abysmal grades?" asks Draco, showing just the edge of his once infuriating smirk.

"I was too busy watching you," Harry says. The words just spill out of him like they do when he's dreaming. Unlike his dreams, no one's bleeding this time, and Draco doesn't try to Crucio him in return. It has the unexpected result of shutting Draco up. Almost.

"Oh," says Draco. He blinks at Harry in surprise, like honesty wasn't something he was prepared for. Maybe, it wasn't.

Words abandon Harry too, just as quick and uncontrolled as they came. He nods instead, not sure what he's agreeing with, and something unseen pulls tight between them. The air is heavy with it. It almost feels like a fight. The anticipation of violence to come, both their magics snapping to attention. Harry is aware of his pulse, heart tap, tap tapping on his ribs.

Draco swallows and Harry can't help tracing the movement with his gaze. He's not sure how he never noticed how smooth the skin on Malfoy's throat was. It's like the incredibly expensive spider-weave silk that Parvati is so proud of, but better. Because it must be warm to the touch. Harry's fingers itch to reach out and find out. Just graze that smooth cream and honey complexion.

Then, when a lock of sleek blond hair falls into Malfoy's eye, Harry can't stop himself.

It is just as bad as his dreams. Just as inescapable. He reaches forward, leans so close that he can smell the strange lemongrass and smoke scent of Malfoy's soap and skin. He brushes the soft strands away from Draco's face, and Draco lets him. Still no hexes thrown. Harry's not sure either of them is breathing.

It's Draco that closes the distance, though. It's not like Draco Malfoy has ever been a patient wizard. He lunges forward and kisses Harry. It isn't like Harry imagined it. It is sudden, but it's almost tentative. It takes Harry a moment to catch up, caught off guard, it's almost too late. He feels Draco start to freeze up, feels him almost pull away, and he can't let that happen. He's been on the edge of this for too bloody long to let Malfoy run.

Harry whimpers despite himself and reaches out to pull Draco back to him. Harry grasps the green and silver stripes of Draco's nightshirt, because he's still Malfoy and he's still the sort of twat that wears a nightshirt. Draco moves back to him the moment Harry responds with such vehemence, and Harry forgets all about the colours under his hands. He's more interested in getting them on skin. Paper thin, blood warm, silky soft skin.

"Potter?" Draco half breathes the word against Harry's flesh when they pause for breath.

It sounds nothing like it has ever sounded before.

It sounds like reverence.

It sounds like a request and a promise all in one.

Harry doesn't know what to say that can rival that tone. So he doesn't. He kisses Draco again, pushing him back on the bed. Draco pulls Harry down with him, holds on for dear life. Kisses back like it can save him, maybe even save them both. They move in tandem, books and wands clatter to the floor, and neither spares the breath to notice. There's too much else going on between them. Too much building in the scant spaces between them to pay attention to anything else.

Harry starts to get a little lost. Lost in touch and taste and heat. But he doesn't know what comes next, just knows he wants it. Knows he likes this kind of fight. His heart is still beating hard enough to feel, and there's magic singing through him in response.

Something sparks and catches between them. Like an Incendio of lust and wanting and something else.

Something that aches and calls out and needs an answer.

Something in his body knows where it wants to go, but he's unsure. He doesn't know how to follow the feeling. Doesn't know if he can or if he should, or if this is just another kind of messed up dream.

Draco moans and Harry wants more of it, he wants to drown in the sound. The room is too warm and nowhere near hot enough. They both move and it's damn near perfect. Closer, hotter, sweeter still. Harry might not know what comes next, but he's almost certain he's ready to find out.

As it turns out, he's not. But it isn't what he expected, either.

Just as Draco's hand skates up Harry's thigh, in just the right way, almost close enough, the Hospital Wing door crashes open. Both boys startle, frozen and tangled together in a way which speaks of nothing but guilt. Harry can't even calculate high enough for the amount of house points they're about to lose.

Then, it gets worse. So much worse.

"Draco?" Lucius Malfoy's voice cuts across the suddenly too cold room.

Harry can feel Draco's reaction. He can feel Draco's skin, warm under his hands just seconds before, go cold with dread. He can feel Draco tense, and worst of all he can see the colour drain from Draco's face. He can see the pure terror reflected in Draco's silver eyes. He's seen people face down Voldemort with less fear than Draco's too slight form now holds.

Every instinct Harry has screams at him to protect Draco. But before he can react, before he can even remember where his wand has fallen, he is wrenched backwards. The force is two fold, a man's strength and a magical pull, combined to throw Harry off Draco and off the hospital bed entirely.

The man who throws him isn't Lucius Malfoy. It's someone else, a lacky Harry doesn't know. A wild, rugged kind of man with huge arms and a ferocious grin. Like a slightly smaller and much more evil Hagrid.

Lucius has his wand on Harry even before he hits the floor. The Incarcerous hits him hard, spite driven and anger tight, the bindings slash around Harry with the force of an Unforgivable. The Silencio follows just as snake quick and stinging sharp.

"It isn't what it—" Draco scrambles to sit up and find some explanation but Lucius cuts him off.

"Do not try to tell me it is not what it looks like." Lucius voice couldn't get any colder or more poisonous. "You took his Mark, Draco. Did you think he wouldn't know what you were doing? Did you think _we_ wouldn't know?"

"Father—"

"Don't call me _that_ ," Lucius snarls. "No son of mine would defile the Malfoy name the way you have."

Lucius raises his wand and casts another binding spell, this time one Harry has never heard before. Whatever it is, it is strong enough that it makes Draco yelp in pain when it hits. Harry struggles against his own bonds, but even with Lucius distracted the spell holds firm. There are no ropes around Draco but, whatever the spell was, Harry can tell that it holds the younger Malfoy fast. Dark smoke snakes around Draco's wrists and chest; Draco flinches from it. From where he sits Harry can see the panic in Draco's eyes.

"Well, well, well." Bellatrix Lestrange steps into the doorway with a snarling smirk, as if the universe just wants to prove that things could get worse. "What have you found, Lucius?" Her tone is butter and treacle, and it makes Harry sick.

"Nothing."

Harry can tell the word hurts Draco worse than the spell that preceded it. Harry's spent enough time trying to hurt Draco Malfoy that he knows that look all too well.

Lucius pulls off his glove, takes two long strides forward then slaps Draco, once, hard across the cheek. Harry can see the bright red mark it leaves, and he almost feels the sting of it as he himself was struck. The degradation is what will hurt the most. Both of Draco and his father, he had already told Harry that hitting with the hands, with fists or feet, was too 'Muggle' for 'proper' wizards. That idea had to have come from somewhere. From Lucius. There was something so symbolic in that act when taken by a man like Lucius Malfoy. As if Draco was unworthy of even his darkest magic.

"Leave Potter unharmed. The Dark Lord has need of him," Lucius says, to Bellatrix as he leaves the room without a backward glance. "The other one's all yours." The implication that Voldemort has no use for Draco is probably meant to be an insult, but it's the way he spits out his dismissal that does the real damage.

Harry tries to protest. He can't speak through the spell, can't fight back against his bonds, the sinking feeling of helplessness is all too familiar. He thinks of Cedric, thinks about the endless pointless cycle of loss and grief. He thinks of the way Lucius Malfoy had laughed that night, the way Bellatrix laughs now, and he hates them all. Hates them with a feral kind of power that he's never quite felt before. It's still not enough, not quite, but in that moment he could Avara Kedavra the lot of them.

Bellatrix smile is filthy, rotten at the core and horrifying in it's truth.

"Make sure Potter watches," Bellatrix says, with vicious glee. The henchman holds on to Harry tighter, sharing her sinister anticipation.

Bellatrix runs her crooked wand along Draco's undamaged cheek. A mockery of tenderness before she tortures her own nephew. If he could make a sound, Harry might sob with the unfairness of it all.

He struggles again, useless still.

"Aunt Bella, please—" Draco has never been above a little begging. He must know it is as useless as Harry trying to break the Incarcerous, but he tries it anyway. One last ditch attempt before she ruins them both.

She drags it out. When Harry tries to look away, the lacky holding him shakes him and forces him to watch.

"Shhh," Bellatrix leans in way too close as she whispers over Draco's skin making him flinch before she even casts anything. "You've been a very naughty boy, Draco. What would your mother say?"

"She'd tell you to sod off, you bitch," Draco snaps back, with more guts than Harry would have given him credit for before he switched sides. "She's never going to forgive you for this."

Bellatrix shrugs. "She never liked me all that much anyway, Draco. That's the thing about blood… you don't always get a choice, do you?"

She casts the spell silently. This time when she traces her wand across Draco's cheek the flesh splits open where the wood touches skin.

Draco screams and Harry would too, if he could.

His tongue feels heavy in his mouth, fighting back against the magic holding it silent. Harry's heart hammers, trying to escape his ribs and failing. The blood runs down Draco's skin just the way it did in the bathroom all those weeks before.

In that moment, Harry knows what's coming next and god he wishes he could look away. He even tries despite how much it hurts when big and hairy yanks his face back towards the scene before him.

Bellatrix borders on gentle as she unbuttons Draco's shirt. This is not the way Harry wanted to find out what Malfoy looks like without his shirt. Watching her hands on Draco's skin makes Harry wretch, the twisted mirror of what he's been dreaming of for weeks makes him ache to scream. Draco tries to pull away, but it's no use; between Lucius's binding spell and Bellatrix's own active magics, he's not getting anywhere. Harry has a sinking feeling neither of them is getting out of this room in one piece.

When Bellatrix reopens each shimmering fine Sectumsempra scar it is so close to his nightmares that Harry hopes for one fragile moment that it is.

Hopes he's going to wake up in cold sweat soaked sheets and be able to run back to the hospital wing. Hopes he'll find Draco snarky and whole and unharmed. But the floor under him is too cold, the smell of the lackey's cigarettes in his nose is like nothing from his dreams, even the bad ones.

Draco's scream is too discordant, too sharp, too real.

It's all too bloody real.

Draco screams again and it echoes in Harry's bones. Bellatrix's wand traces another scar, slowly peeling it back. Blood blossoms under her cruel attentions. Blood dripping for the wounds Harry made. It soaks Draco's chest and wishes he could scream too. Wishes he could fight back like he's meant to. Bellatrix is going to kill Draco and it's going to be Harry's fault; she's going to untrace every last scar, and Draco is going to bleed out right there in the hospital wing.

Right in front of Harry.

Harry closes his eyes tight shut and the wizard holding him shakes him, rough and painful enough that he opens them again despite himself. Just in time to see a tiny ball of red and gold roll into the room.

Harry recognises the Weasleys' Wizarding Wheezes packaging just in time, he risks shutting his eyes again and flinches back just a moment too soon. The firework goes off with blinding suddenness. Too Bright and cheerful in a moment when Harry thinks his heart might just give up beating altogether.

It's Hermione's voice that reaches him through the gathered smoke.

"Stupefy," she yells, he almost misses the flash of red that follows it the smoke is still so think. Then, close behind the stunning spell, Hermione cries out again quick as a Gryffon, "Finite Incantatem."

Luckily, Harry reacts by instinct. He rolls away from his captor as soon as he feels the Incarcerous drop away from him. He reaches out in the confusion, trying to find his wand where he hopes it fell. He feels warm wood respond to his fingers, and he's got a Stupefy on the burly henchman before either of them fully registers what's going on.

It's only after he's cast it that Harry realises he has Draco's wand not his own. His hands are shaking.

"Harry? Are you alright?" Hermione has found him in the sulphurous smoke and gloom.

"We have to get Madame Pomfrey or Snape. We have to help Draco!" Harry doesn't even wait to thank her. He will, later. But there isn't enough time. They were running out of time before she even burst in. There's never been enough time and maybe there never will be.

"Snape killed Dumbledore, Harry. We have to get _out_ of here."

"Not without Malfoy," Harry tells her. There's no room for argument. He can't let this happen. Not again. He's at the bedside before her words really register.

"Did you say Snape..."

"Yes, Harry. I am so sorry. But we don't have time. We have to get out. Hogwarts is crawling with Death Eaters and… oh, god."

The smoke has cleared enough that Hermione can see Draco. It's even worse up close. He's pale, too pale. And too quiet. And there's so much blood. Red and dark and slick on soft skin. Harry's not even sure if Draco blacked out before or after Hermione came to the rescue. Harry wants to shake him, wants to force him awake, force him to be okay.

Then Harry sees the tiniest catch of breath. Sees Draco's chest move, and without realising he hadn't been, Harry breathes again too.

"Stand back," Hermione commands, drawing her wand on Draco. Harry obeys. He's too broken and confused to do anything else.

The spell Hermione casts isn't the one Snape used last time. But then again this is a different curse. She weaves some kind of silver web. The skin knits back together but it's imperfect. Harry knows without asking that this is temporary. It'll get them out of Hogwarts, but then they're on their own.

Really, truly on their own.


End file.
